Resolution
by Stabberwocky
Summary: A late-night dark fic, centered around Stark. Written in early Season 3. Spoilers.


Disclaimer:Not mine, no money, leave me alone.  
  
Archiving:You want it? You got it, but let me know where you put it.  
  
Notes:BIG thanks to Christina for doing the beta on this puppy. It was error-ridden, but she helped me work out the kinks. This fic might be slightly confusing, but you'll get it. Without further ado...  
  
I look down on her sleeping form and thoughts bounce around inside my head. Thoughts that turn one way, barrel down their track, then turn round on themselves and erase the trail they made. I look at her, peaceful in her thickened sleep as she once was in death.  
  
She who lives because of another's sacrifice.  
  
What would Zhaan say, if she knew what I was thinking?  
  
Zhaan could never understand these aspects. It was not her way to be so bold, to assert herself in this manner. She was a picture of tranquility, not given to such action. Her shipmates were sacred. Zhaan would never have considered the concept. She did not take. She gave and gave, she gave the ultimate gift. And now she is dead. So that this might live.  
  
I've given. I've given cycles of my life to the Chair. Cycles in Scorpy's research. The chair, the chair, remember the chair…Pain…searing…Increase the extraction. I shook my head. Mustn't get distracted. There is a task at hand, here. I've given thoughts to calm, ease the dying, but I suffer for it. There is no gift that can be given freely of oneself. It all comes back.  
  
What would Crichton say?  
  
He clearly has feelings for her, and who could blame him? She is very pretty. I've said so once, myself. Very pretty. But she'll never be Zhaan. She admitted it. It was sad to see her go before, but the sacrifice to recall her to life was too much. She lied! Promised that we would Zhaan would be alright; that she would heal.  
  
She lied the way they all do! "Peacekeeper scum!"  
  
She stirs; my heart pounds as I stand still. I must have uttered the words aloud. She is not fully awake, the drug should prevent that for a little while. I must decide soon. Why have I waited? It is a delicate consideration, to measure a being's worth. And even more delicate to gauge her worth to others. Would D'argo understand? The others? No, impossible. They never could. They will probably kill me, but all the sooner will I join my Zhaan and her goddess.  
  
My heart aches at the thought. Her cool blue energy calmed in quiet waves, but it is no longer a part of this life. She has dropped out of the cycle, so I must cross to her end.  
  
With a nod to myself, I am suddenly certain. Quietly, quietly, I move to her bedside, when she stirs again.  
  
"Wha--Crichton?" she murmurs. I shake my head.  
  
"No," I whisper.  
  
She opens one eye to give me a look. "Sta—"  
  
She began my name, but I don't let her finish it. There were many things I learned from Zhaan, not the least of which was the recipe for sleeping gas. Her reactions are dulled by it, and it shows. My hand clamps fast over her nose and mouth. She struggles a bit, but I am able to get on top of her quickly. I sit on her chest, forcing her down, forcing the air out of her. The corner of my mouth twitches a little, I think I want to smile. So I do. A mad grin, I know it is, and I know they will mistake my glee for madness, but I wish they wouldn't. I know what I am doing. Pilot is probably trying to reach me by now on my Com, but I've removed it. He comes through on Aeryn's.  
  
"Stark! Stark! What are you doing?" He cries in alarm.  
  
"She doesn't belong here, Pilot," I reply. I feel calm.  
  
"D'argo! Crichton! Wake up! Wake up!" Pilot has started the alarm. But by the time he gets them both up, by the time they can make it here…I smile again. I will win. Already, Officer Sun's struggles grow weaker. She is nearly unconscious. Just a little while longer…Sleep well, Crichton!  
  
I cannot hear D'argo and Crichton's replies, but I assume that they have responded by now. Pilot is speaking to them again. "Hurry! To Officer Sun's Quarters!"  
  
Crichton will ask unnecessary questions, that buys me just a few more microts. I use them well. Her energy is seeping from her. A pity that it should be such a slow death, but I cannot afford the uncertainty of anything else. Who knows what the creature could survive? I hear their footsteps in the hall, but Aeryn is as good as dead. Perhaps it will also be my time. I resolve to keep my hand clamped to her face until I am bodily disengaged from that enterprise. Crichton explodes into the room.  
  
"What the hell?" he shouts. "What the hell is this?" He grabs my coat at the neck. I struggle to keep my grip on the Peacekeeper's face, but Crichton pulls me off of her and throws me to the ground. "What the hell are you doing?"  
  
I stand, looking at him, unafraid. "She doesn't belong here," I say for the second time tonight. Or is it this morning? I wonder idly. Time passes so quickly, the difference in two days being split between two exact microts. Lives end and begin on and between every one of those microts, each begetting a saga which will last for what seems only a few arns before it is drawn to a close. I ponder this while I see his fist draw back, then speed towards my face.  
  
The sheer force of the blow knocks me back several paces, sending me stumbling into the wall. I feel the pain, but something inside makes me laugh. "Hit me again," I say, and it sounds more like a request than a taunt. I wonder what I really mean when I say that.  
  
Muttering what seem to be curses, John flings himself bodily on me, hands gripping for my throat in order to choke me. I don't fight back. Why should I? What will be will be at this point.  
  
D'argo makes his appearance now, bursting in to see the fighting. He hauls Crichton off of me, holding him back with some effort. I laugh again, brokenly, happy but sad. If I live, I will be badly bruised. D'argo stares at both of us. "What's happened?" he demands gruffly, then follows Crichton's glance to Aeryn's still and peaceful face. As Crichton runs to her side, I think that perhaps she does not look as peaceful to them as she does to me.  
  
Crichton seals his lips on hers and pinches her nose, puffing out his cheeks. D'argo stares at him. "What the hezmana are you doing?" the Luxan demands. Crichton then starts pumping his hands on her chest.  
  
"It's called CPR. It's how humans bring people back to life…13, 14, 15."  
  
He gives two more breaths. D'argo folds his arms and shakes his head. "You can't do that, Crichton. Can't you see she's dead? Your C-T-R cannot help her. She is gone. Stop this." D'argo lays a hand on John's shoulder. I still haven't moved from the floor. I don't want to be noticed now.  
  
Crichton pulls suddenly away, reaching for his pulse rifle. He jumps at me again, resting the rifle on the side of my face. "That mask of yours stop pulse shots? Let's find out," he growls at me, and I glance at the gun, then back into his eyes. He is taking it harder than I'd expected.  
  
"Crichton, stop," D'argo commands. "Do you want two bodies on your hands? That won't solve anything, you'll be just as mad as he is!"  
  
"Shut up!" Crichton gestures at D'argo with the gun. Pointing back at me, he says, "Why'd you do that?" No anger in that question, only bafflement. I feel a little guilty. A little.  
  
"She didn't deserve the sacrifice," I reply. His eyes widen, his nostrils flare, and the gun emits a whine.  
  
A flash of light.  
  
That is all I remember. 


End file.
